Tell Me a Story
by Onedergirl
Summary: Rose has daddy issues.


The first time it happened they were in prison.

In fact, it was their third prison in four planets and they were all starting to look the same to her, really. Being locked up for hours in dark, dank places with dripping water echoing off stone floors—well, it was starting to make her skin itch. She was dirty, her hair was sticking to her scalp, and she was finally beginning to understand the Doctor's need for almost incessant movement.

"How much longer?" she sulked, idly scratching at the inside of her elbow.

The Doctor was busy inspecting the stone walls surrounding them, running his hands over the gaps in the masonry, and his long, cool, white fingers gliding along looked like vanilla ice cream. She scratched at the joint between her neck and her shoulder.

"Not sure," he replied distractedly, "maybe a few hours, give or take?" He glanced around and sent her a beaming smile. "Enough time for some rest, anyway," he continued, whipping his glasses off then joining her on the floor. He wrapped an arm around her shoulders and tugged her close. "Close your eyes and try for some rest," he murmured into her ear, "you'll need it."

She tried on a tired smile for a moment—an acknowledgment—then settled her head against his neck and closed her eyes. She tried to relax—really, she did—but she was still itchy. She was just debating whether to move so she could scratch at her knee when she felt his long, cool fingers draw her hair from her face and stroke slowly from above her eye to her ear.

Her body froze, her itch forgotten and a long forgotten memory of being held like this—of her hair being stroked and a whispered goodnight in her ear, of clean sheets and the dim light of a table lamp in her bedroom, and Arthur her stuffed bear clutched in her grasp—assaulted her. It was there and gone again like a flash of lightning, but her stomach squirmed with butterflies as it echoed in her mind. She bit her lip for the pain to remind herself of the here and now rather than the long ago.

And hours later, when they raced back into the TARDIS after yet another daring escape, she hugged him and pled exhaustion, then retreated to her room where she stripped naked beneath the sheets and thought of whispered goodnights, and teddy bears and childhood memories and came harder than she ever had in her life.

The second time it happened, she'd just had a nightmare and woken with a start, heart racing and trying to catch her breath, stomach churning. She'd been trapped in a prison, but it was all whites and primary colours where everyone looked like a drawing and everything was flat. There was no noise, no _feeling_, just soundlessness and emptiness. A void.

She felt him before she knew he was there, his arms around her shoulders, his hands smoothing the hair at the back of her head, his voice hushed as he asked her what happened. The words tumbled out of her like a waterfall and she clutched at him so she wouldn't drown.

Finally-_finally_-she could breathe again, could pull away from him to smile at him, to say _I'll be all right, just a bad dream. Bit silly, really, getting so worked up_. He smiled fondly in return and kept rubbing her hair, his fingers tucking a breakaway strand behind her ear and she shuddered, her breath catching again as he leaned forward and kissed her forehead. She could hear blood pounding in her ears and the sound reminded her of thunder, of a storm that came at night when she was still a girl, and her daddy's arms around her, comforting her, telling her a story to distract her.

She shivered at the memory and she saw him frown worriedly in response. "Are you okay, Rose?" he asked, all tenderness. She bit her lip, squirming slightly at the wetness between her legs, and was completely honest when she said, "Yes."

The third time it happened, months later, she'd been injured escaping from a building rigged with a bomb. Oh, her injuries weren't life-threatening, thank goodness—the Doctor had managed to pull her far enough away so that when the bomb went, she was in no danger of burns. No, she'd only a broken leg from a rather unfortunately placed rock. Well, that and a concussion. She was sure she'd had worse, but the Doctor had taken it badly—he'd claimed it was his fault, but it wasn't like he'd placed the rock there—and had insisted on leaving the TARDIS in the vortex while he helped her heal.

This seemed, to her bewilderment, to include helping her dress. Which in itself wasn't a bad thing—in fact, were she honest with herself, she couldn't believe her good luck—but it was more the way he went about it. For instance, the first morning he'd waltzed in—already babbling away about some planet or another he was going to take her to when her leg and her head were completely healed—and instead of helping her out of bed, he pulled back the covers and maneuvered her so that her legs were hanging over the side and she was still flat on her back.

And he started taking off her pajamas—nonchalantly, as though he did this sort of thing everyday—his cool hands sliding down the outside of her thighs, one still wrapped tight to set the bone, but the other . . . she could feel skin on skin, her eyes wide, her insides squirming, a shiver working its way up her spine leaving goose bumps in its wake and shorting out her vocal chords in the process.

The Doctor carefully folded her pajama bottoms, nattering on about a planet called Midnight he'd been meaning to visit—"Imagine that, Rose! A waterfall made of sapphires!"—and she was about to reply when he turned to her again and his fingers slid between her knickers and her hips and tugged.

Her hips lifted automatically, but her jaw dropped and she couldn't conceal a gasp—at the shock, at the sudden smarting of cold against her warm skin, at the way her nipples hardened and poked at the thin cotton t-shirt she was wearing. She felt her heart pounding, blood racing through her veins and her stomach fluttering as she thought of his fingers sliding between her legs and, on the heels of that image, of her shockingly pink bedroom and being five years old and getting ready for school, of her father helping her dress in white knickers and a blue skirt.

Her eyelids fluttered as he slid a clean pair of knickers over her legs, her hips lifting off the bed so he could fit them in place—a distant part of her mind awed that he _hadn't stopped talking_-and it was impossibly arousing, even as she wanted to call him 'Daddy' and wrap her legs around his, push against him and beg for a bedtime story.

Fingers dug into her sheets and her body was still reacting, even as—or maybe especially because—he was gently pushing her legs together to slip on a skirt. She bit her lip hard, her stomach clenched and her nice clean knickers no longer so clean. She tried not to squirm as his hands lingered for a moment around her waist, the chill of them contrasting with her own heat, and she needed to be alone now.

"Doctor?" she squeaked, doing her best to tamp down on a moan she felt bubbling somewhere in her chest.

He stopped talking, an eyebrow raised in question. The silence stretched and hung thick and the words were on the tip of her tongue_-Do you mind getting me some tea?_' or _I need to use the toilet._ or even _I can get the rest, thanks._-but instead, as she looked into his eyes, she propped herself on an elbow and grabbed at his tie, her gaze sliding down to his lips. And then she tugged once, hard, and kissed him deeply, her eyes closed and his lips cool as his nose bumped hers, then rubbed against her cheek, her stomach coiling with want, with fire, even as her mind pictured pink sheets and Arthur and the sound of a page turning in a book.

She pulled away, hand still on his tie, lips against his and mumbled, "Tell me a story, Daddy."


End file.
